Noone's Immortal
by Tyringpretilly
Summary: Powerful, dark Harry is back with a vengeance!  Join Harry in the crux of a murderously exciting adventure and be prepared to be pulled along by the seat of your pants! T for language
1. Chapter 1

**-Chapter One!-**

Harry slouched out of the dingy tattoo parlour half pissed and half pissed-off. His Hungarian Horntail tattoo had just had its final touch-ups, and Harry later planned to enchant the inky behemoth to move and twist underneath his skin. He should be happy at its final completion, a task which had taken several months, but Harry James Potter was _always_ pissed off. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, then let it drop down, over his equally unkempt stubble. He didn't mind about his scruffy appearance, rather thinking that it added to his overall mystique and ironic taste.

He shuffled on further down the street, his inebriation just enough to take the edge off of his lightning-quick Seeker reflexes, but he still knew he was a deadly motherfucker if it needed to come to it. Which, it _always_ did. Turning the corner of the dimly lit and rain-sodden street, he stepped over two bodies and coughed loudly into his balled hands. Pausing only to spit a long gob of reeking phlegm on the scarred visage of the first corpse, and ruing the day he ever entered that Egyptian tomb and contracted the wasting illness in his lungs, he continued on his not-so-merry way, fumbling in one pocket as he did so.

At last his questing fingers located what he so desperately needed. He gazed warily around at the poorly-lit stone frontages of Knockturn Alley and admired the gritty realism as he knocked one cigarette out of the crumpled packet. Harry lit it with a snap of his fingers and took a deep drag.

Before too many minutes had dared to pass for Harry Motherfucking Potter, he had finished his first cigarillo, eaten the butt, started on another, and found what he was looking for.

_BA-CRASH!_

The door to Borgin & Burkes flew open, and Mr Borgin found himself lifted by his lapels and slammed brutally against the concrete wall. "Where is he?" Potter roared in his face.

Borgin gave a little laugh: half nervous, half hysterical.

"Where? Is? He?"

Borgin squeaked and tried not to look at the 'specialist' bookshelf to his left which contained the hidden passageway. Harry wasn't fooled for a second and, bored with the reaction so far, used wandless magic (in which he was a grand master) to throw Borgin's body into the tall bookshelf with a cynical smirk. The wood was solid, but it gave away with a giant crack.

"That's what you get for 'Borgin' me" Harry added wittily.

Borgin had landed partway in the secret passageway, and did not rise. Harry had to step over yet another broken body that evening, and bared his teeth at the cheek of these bodies for getting in his way. As he crossed the threshold he felt the buzz of a strong ward die around his slim but muscular body. He had cast ward-cutting charms around his body earlier that evening foreseeing just such an event as this.

The tunnel was pitch black, so Harry conjured flames directly onto the palm of his hand, enjoying the scorching feeling of the fire as it licked at his flesh. _Lumos_ was just too tame.

Deciding that he'd spent too much time dillydallying already, he began his descent into the bowels of the bookshop.

* * *

><p><strong>Do you have the power to R&amp;R?<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

~ … CHAPTER TWO … ~

Harry's eyes widened involuntarily at what he saw, and he drew his backup wand: titanium steel with a double core of nundu heartstring and Grindelwald's beard. He had harvested the ingredients and crafted the wand himself. It had a skull carved on the end of it.

"Death Eaters," Harry spat. "Why did it have to be Death Eaters?"

He stood dramatically in a pale beam of moonlight that glinted down through the skylight over the stairwell.

"I _hate_ Death Eaters."

The Death Eaters were keeping up to their namesake – it seemed like Harry was crashing dinner celebrations, probably spurning from the masked menace's latest victory. Harry had read about the torture and death of a muggleborn witch and her family in the Prophet earlier that day, Harry could have actually saved the witch, but the dumb cow had once insulted his elegance on a broomstick. From his actually rather obvious and slightly ridiculous vantage point, Harry deduced that death must actually taste rather good. The whole lot were in various stages of gorging themselves richly on the food spread in front of them, to an almost comatose state, happily rubbing their straining bellies.

"Well" Harry started in his Batman voice "Looks like Death is on the menu for them in more than one way, tonight!"

Harry launched himself forward, doing an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the stairwell handle while dual-wielding his two wands. In mid-flight, he quickly transfigured both wands into twin-pistols, and began firing!

Bang! Kazang! Kabloom!

"Eat that," Harry laughed as the back of a Death Eater's head disappeared.

Kawhip! Boom! Kaplooie!

Harry landed and rolled, shooting the wands out of two more Death Eaters' hands.

By this point, despite their collective amazement and surprise at this dark and sexy invader hunting them down like so many baby pigeons, one of the dark wizards had managed to find his wits.

Harry's next bullet richocheted off a magical shield, and he quickly transfigured one pistol into a long dagger.

Bang! Kablat! Ker-stab!

The head Death Eater went down like a bag full of organmeat, knife in his eye. The reclining scantily-clad witches on either side of him toppled forward in marvellous synchrony, each one shot square through the neck.

Harry's snake-sense buzzed harshly. Basilisks! Two of them!

(Why did it have to be basilisks?)

Without thinking, Harry leapt on top of the nearest scaly behemoth, eyes shut, and put his cigarette out in its eye. It hissed in agony. The snake's greatest weapon effectively negated, he drew a bead on the exact centre of its skull.

Kerzack! Kapow! Badoom!

The first basilisk had become nothing more than a cooling memory.

That left... one.

Dagger poised to throw, a bead of blood running down the side of his face, Harry turned slowly. He spoke in Parseltongue as he did so.

"_I suppose in all the confusion, you're wondering: did I fire nine shots - and stab one guy – or fire ten shots? And stab one guy. And you know, I'm not too sure myself. I guess the question you have to ask yourself is: do you feel lucky, punk?_"


	3. Chapter 3

**-Chapter Three!-**

Peter Pettigrew stood shaking like a cornered rat, his jowels wobbling like an overfilled waterballoon. Harry roared at the stupid adult,

"DO YOU FEEL LUCKY, PUNK?"

Peter twitched from this onslaught, almost paralysed with fear as he took in the scene of destruction around him.

"H-Harry, dear, sweet Harry, such a good master, so good to see you.." he grovelled,

"Yes, Peter, tell me more."

Peter looked almost stupified by this response from Harry, but quickly set about prattling on about Harry's charm, wit, good looks and intelligence. Soon, however, Harry became quite bored with the small fat man, and began demanding answers from him about Voldemort's inner circle. Not that Harry particularly cared about Voldemort these days, he kept his distance. Voldy knew that he couldn't take Harry anymore.

He couldn't afford to. Not since Harry had eaten half the dark bastard's Dementors for breakfast that fateful June morning. Happy times.

He snorted aloud, ignoring Pettigrew for the moment. He had just realised that he was twice as worthy of the name 'death eater' as the incompentent pawn in front of him.

His attention was only drawn back to the cowardly skulker when a flash of silvery movement caught his eye. Harry laughed at the attempts of the rat to struggle across the floor to a hidey-hole with fully grown human hand of vaporous silver attached. That just proved what lame spells the dark bugger used to 'reward' his servants.

Harry wouldn't have used the Quicksilver Limb spell. He would have used Killing Curse Appendages, a brutally dangerous charm of his own devising. _Remember, you can't spell 'charm' without 'harm'_, he thought to himself, and sniggered.

Bright green was more stylish than silver, anyway.

The Pettigrew-rat crawled into a hole in the wall, but the human hand was too wide. It was well and truly stuck. It curled into a fist and flexed like a crab on its back, but to no avail.

Harry levelled his wand at it and spoke.

"Homino Reversus" He lazily jabbed his wand towards the rat and watched as the tiny frame began swelling, becoming trapped in the small rat-hole he had previously tried to occupy. Then, the screaming started. A few seconds later, the wall cracked from the build-up of pressure as Pettigrew continued to transform back into his human form, many times too large for the hole. The parts of the frame that did not give way under pressure dug deep into Pettigrew's body, and he howled in pain. The yells only incensed Harry further.

"SHUT UP YOU MOTHERFUCKING WIMP, THIS IS NOTHING COMPARED TO LOSING YOUR PARENTS. YOU WERE THEIR FRIEND."

He took a deep breath, drawing on that anger to fuel his magic. "_Crucio!_"

Wormtail gave a long, ululating cry of pain, like three seals being eaten by a killer whale.

"_Crucio! Defenestratum!_"

The mangled body came shooting out of the wall in a cloud of plaster dust and became a twitching, bloodied heap on the floor.

"_Explodus patella!_ Second rat gets the cheese, motherfucker!"

Two little discs of bone shot across the floor, and the man's already volumineforous screaming increased.

"_Crucio! Aguamenti! Turkish bathulum!_" Steam burns formed over the death eater's body.

"_Avada kedavra,_" Harry said finally, with some relish, and spat his cigarette out onto the cooling corpse.

"Looks like you've... _petered_ out," he smirked.

Harry breathed in deeply, attempting to contain his nascent rage. He was glad that he'd finally caught up with Scabbers – another target on his list could be scratched off. But now was not the time for reminiscence, not when bodies needed looting. At some point during the fighting, Harry's shirt had become ripped open, exposing the Lords sculpted torso underneath. He would need to find a new outfit before he left. Perhaps a coat as well, as the night had turned quite cool. Shivering was for bitches and pussies, and Harry Fucking Potter was neither.

He wandered amongst the lifeless meatsacks, turning each over with a swift kick. He finally settled on a plain black shirt, which fitted his body like magic, and an ebony knee-length trenchcoat. It had small spikes on the collar and shoulderpads. It matched his edgy raven-like hair.

Coming to the last corpse, Harry was almost surprised to see the spasming visage of Snivellus Snape staring blankly up at him, dressed only in a skimpy bikini. Even as he watched, the last of the blonde hair faded away.

_Snape_ had been one of the two-knut death eater whores Harry'd put out of their misery? Well, you learned something new every day.

That said, the bile was rising fast in his throat.

"Polyjuice," Harry spat. "Why did it have to be polyjuice? I hate polyjuice."

He took one last look around him. "First things first."

Using his wand as a knife, he cut the fangs from the slain basilisks, and thrust them through his belt. He also took an ear from Snape, just for laffs. Maybe he'd show it off to some grateful Hufflesluts who'd suffered as children at the man's hands.

He spend a moment in contemplation of exactly how grateful they might be.

"Now. Time to get all phoenix-like on these corpses."

Raising his wand, he floated into the air with a manly grunt of effort, and at the same time summoned Fiendfyre, which instantly began to burn through the basement room in great blazing coils. Harry watched, wreathed in smoke and half-hypnotised. Seriously, he could watch corpses burn all day.

"Arr," he joked, clapping one hand over his eye. "I'ma pyre it."


	4. Chapter 4

~Chapter 4~

~Smoke was billowing out of the bookshop. From the writhing, monster-like shapes it was forming, Agent Granger knew it was from Fiendfyre. Some stupid idiot had obviously gone and lost control of their magic, and with all the books around who knew how quickly it had all gone up? Now she had a sleepless night ahead of her involving freezing charms and potentially body-counting. Not that there was too much of the night left, now. The sky had begun to lighten to an indistinct grey. Coupled with the smoke drifting through the street, visibility was at an all-time-low. However, even if it had been noon on the clearest day in Knockturn Alley, she still would have missed the Unspeakable-trained Harry, as he slunk away from the blaze.~

Agent Granger swept her hair back into a prim bun with a flick of her wand, and bent slightly to examine a cigarette butt smouldering on the ground.

"Familiar," she mumbled. And indeed it was; she had come across these exact immaculately- rolled stubs before. Diagnostics (conducted through idle curiosity and in her own time) had revealed them to be a curious blend of Peruvian darkness powder, mandrake leaf and finest Columbian Gold. Too _particular_ a taste for your typical Knockturn Alley denizen.

Granger had never been able to put a face to this particular vice, though.

After instinctively bagging it, she moved cautiously up to the bookshop and gripped her wand tightly in the approved manner.

_Crack__!_ Agent Granger spun and kicked the largest piece out of the smouldering ruins of the door.

Luckily for Harry, the boot-kick masked the sound of his disapparation.

Granger cast the Bubble Head charm on herself to protect from the waspish fumes still gusting from the store and gritted her teeth as she stomped right on in. In her peripheral vision she could see the disjointed fragments of broken spells; she counted several newly dead wards before noticing the crispy, blackened body of the store keep. She cooled, preserved and levitated the body in less than three seconds with three different spells, at the same time assessing the rest of the shop and approaching the secret-entrance.

She emerged thirty minutes later, the unidentified body bobbing along slowly behind her. She was absolutely covered in soot and decorated with a dark scowl on her face. The entire place contained nothing of use to her investigation; the Fiendfyre had done its obvious job of scouring the hideout of any recognisable bodies or information. Yet, Granger couldn't help shake the idea that Death Eaters were involved. The convenient location of the hideout certainly helped her in that. But what really niggled at her brain was whether the Death Eaters were the culprits, or the _victims. _Agent Granger had been very aware of the series of random-seeming 'attacks' that had been occurring without logical purpose over the last 18 months. It had coincided with the graduation of Hermione from Hogwarts, and she damn well knew this was related. A putrid smell of burnt human flesh entered her nostrils at that moment, dislodging that train of thought temporarily as she remembered the body floating faithfully behind her. She cursed silently in French, and apparated with the body to the morgue.

Returning to her desk at the Ministry, several floors above where she had deposited the burnt body to be identified, she thought hard about the reports gathered so far about the mystery mage who was supposedly spontaneously responsible in bringing down whole dens of Death Eaters, then irrationally, blowing up innocent pubs reputedly for not carrying a certain type of whiskey. That particular thought brought the young witch to the desk drawer in front of her, and she pulled out the half-gone bottle of golden-coloured whiskey. Pouring out a generous shot she took a bullet from the gun she always carried under her robes (constant vigilance). Grimacing, she popped the shell into her mouth and chugged back the alcohol. For some, it would take the edge off of clear thinking but for Granger, it seemed to amplify what she already had. Her thoughts turned once more to the events of the early morning and the knowledge that the person responsible was still on the run, and still completely a mystery to her and her department. If there was one thing that Hermione God-Damn Granger did not like, it was a wild card.

Agent HJ, as her friends called her – or rather, as her respectful acquaintances and slightly jealous co-workers called her – Agent HJ was a strong believer in laying out all the facts before reaching a conclusion.

For that reason, she spun in her seat and regarded the wall opposite. The entire surface was festooned in colourful scrawls and questions, feebly struggling post-it-notes, and case files joined up with little flags and multicoloured string. They all related in some way to the Mystery Mage.

"Dozens of explosions, scores of deaths, hundreds of violent assaults," she said aloud, taking a thoughtful nip from the whiskey bottle, and feeling her Vim and Imagination rising rapidly.

"Some of those assaults aggravated, many inexplicable. All attributed to a dark-haired '_fightin' drunk_'. Can glass someone really artfully, by the reports. Foul-mouthed and smoking and filled with raw, brutal, animalistic sexual energy." She hated men like that.

Perusing the wall in detail, she frowned at a scrap of parchment that just said: "UNSPEAKABLE?" and shook her head restlessly. There was no way that could be right. Fingers drummed on the bottle; a stray ray of sun began to slowly make its way through the shutters and down the wall.

Granger's pretty peepers travelled to one set of paperclipped notes in particular: the earliest she could possibly link anything back to the mysterious man in black, and thus the highest on the timeline which sprawled across her office wall like the web of some insane bureaucratic spider.

These notes related to the disappearance of Ron Weasley in mysterious circumstances on the very day their class graduated. Death Eater attack? Spontaneous combustion? Ran off with an ugly fisherman's daughter? Nobody knew for sure.

Nobody knew, but _everybody _had cared. They had even dared to blame Hermione for his disappearance, it seemed to make sense to the Law Division's Head of Department at the time that a jealous and rejected mudblood would easily plan and carry out a murder.

With Harry's advice, she had challenged the smug Enforcer to a duel, and had blasted him apart like a worthless ragdoll. 'You keep what you kill' was the slogan carved into the door above her office, and it rang true for the department. Instead of being arrested, Hermione had acquired the most dangerous job in the entire Ministry, and boy did she revel in it.

(On a more literal level, she had also kept the bastardly Enforcer's skull, finding it was perfect for keeping pencils in after they got too stubby to be found easily).

What was kept secret from everybody, however, was that _two_ people had died on that duelling court. The stupid and obnoxious Enforcer, along with sweet little Hermione J Granger's innocence. The memories had hit her unbidden, like a sledgehammer, and she took another long pull from her whiskey bottle, swaying slightly as she got up from her seat. Staring morosely at the spider web of information pinned in front of her, she thought of poor young Hermione.

Then she snorted. More like Hermy-ninny. There wasn't enough left of that Hermione to fill a teaspoon. Now she was Hermione God-Damn Granger, the Ministry's Terrier, full of piss and vinegar and quite capable of knotting a man's arms behind him.

Not that she _would_. It was still By The Book Or Nothing for Agent Granger. But still, it was important to have a backup plan.

So yeah... Ron Weasley could suck it, was probably what came out of that particular bit of introspection, she thought, weaving unsteadily around the room on what now looked to her like three left feet.

Wait... who was it who used to say "suck it" all the time?

Inspiration hit her like a bolt from the blue. Another piece to the puzzle! Not much more than a suspicion, but it was a hefty one. It was beginning to make _sense_ now! And she hadn't heard from him, either, in... well, in so long!

Hermione lurched towards the wall with her notes, drunkenly intent on imposing an entirely new pattern on the puzzle contained therein, when the room span and the carpet came up to meet her like a fist to the jaw.


End file.
